Insecure
by LadyDivine91
Summary: When gaggles of women start flooding his shop on their lunch hours just to gawk at his sexy husband, Aziraphale begins to succumb to the new doubts and fears that come as a result of going native. Luckily, Crowley has a cure for that. Aziraphale x Crowley


Aziraphale has noticed a disturbing trend in the customers who come into his shop lately. No longer do they seem to be interested in purchasing one of his many immaculate and prized first editions (thank _God_), but, instead, they come to gawk at his husband, who spends a great deal of his time draped over a chair in the corner reading. Or _pretending_ to read. He's mostly there to annoy Aziraphale – make suggestive remarks when the angel bends over, persuade him take long lunches and close up early, rearrange the books by random indicators like whether there's an animal featured on the cover or not, the author's hair color, or their perceived sexual orientation. Since Aziraphale can't afford to waste miracles, that means he has to spend all day reorganizing his shelves.

Or leave them as is, which is Crowley's aim really.

But the gaggle of teenaged girls who come in before and after school, and the business women who stop by on their lunch hour, annoy him more.

He's tried to juggle his times of operation to avoid them – open later, close earlier, take off Mondays. But they don't seem to mind being late to where they're going just to catch a glimpse of his demon.

And it's beginning to wear on him.

Crowley doesn't seem to notice the attention. Aziraphale brought it up to him once over lunch, asking how it felt to be objectified by the female clientele that his presence has been attracting day after day after day (in part because he was irritated and in part because he was genuinely curious), to which Crowley said, "You've been getting customers? When was that? Last week?"

Since Aziraphale can usually tell when Crowley is lying, and he wasn't this time around, that was the end of that discussion.

But this influx of admirers has begun to spotlight certain doubts in Aziraphale's mind that have been hiding there for some time.

Do they belong together? Are they really a match?

He's not even talking about the angel/demon dynamic. A lot of people would say that opposites attract and well, you can't get much more opposite than good and evil.

Then again, they've come to discover that Crowley isn't completely evil, and Aziraphale isn't necessarily 100% good.

And that's part of the point.

So many things have changed for Aziraphale lately, ever since he and his demon became husbands. Changes in life, changes in his shop … changes in _him_. Inadequacies, doubts, fears, no longer simply about himself or his job efficiency as an angel, but about this relationship – a relationship that had been a constant in his existence, one he didn't have to think too hard on or worry too much about. Perhaps it's a side-effect of going native, but being married to a sexy demon on a planet that values youth and beauty over wit and intelligence makes him question a lot of things, things he hadn't thought to question for all the years they'd been friends.

If Aziraphale has begun to notice these things, will Crowley begin to notice them, too?

Will they become important to him?

Crowley is a demon, bound (for the most part) by demonic rules. When one takes into account the seven deadly sins - a page straight out of the demon playbook - technically, they already should be.

The door to the shop opens and a new wave of women walks through. Aziraphale rolls his eyes mentally but confronts them with a smile. He walks straight up to them, effectively blocking their way further than the counter unless they admit to wanting a book, which, at this point, he may just be willing to sell them if it means they leave without the requisite drooling over his husband.

"Good morning! May I help you young ladies?"

The three of them do their best to get around him, but with the only entrance into the belly of the shop being the narrow aisle behind him, it would be impossible to do without shoving him to the side.

Which one lady in a houndstooth jacket and blonde bob looks fully prepared to do.

They try to peek over him but to no avail as the chair his husband lounges on has been moved out of sight of the door. All three women deflate when they realize their trip to this otherwise dull and dusty little shop has all been for naught, and they sigh in unison.

"Uh … no. No, we're … okay," one of them says, and they turn and leave the shop, grumbling about the _pudgy old troll popping out from under his bridge to ruin their fun_.

The door slams shut and Aziraphale sighs, returning to his task of restocking the shelves.

"Now what was all that about?" Crowley asks, coming up behind his angel, having caught the final few seconds of that unfortunate interaction.

"Nothing," Aziraphale replies, doing his best to try and smile as he tosses books onto shelves, barely paying mind to where they belong.

"Is that so?" Crowley rescues the next book, which had missed the shelf, before it lands on the floor. "The way you're abusing these poor books, it doesn't seem like _nothing_. What has …" He glances at the cover of the one he's holding before sliding it into its place on the shelf "… Allen Ginsberg ever done to you?"

Aziraphale stops. Full stops. Stops stocking the shelves, stops smiling, stops trying to pretend. In the grand scheme of the universe and God's ineffable plan, Aziraphale's problems seem shallow and petty. But they are his problems, and right now, they're bowing his back, weighing his shoulders down.

"Why did you ask me to marry you, Crowley?" he asks, staring down at his husband's snakeskin shoes and hugging the remaining three books to his chest.

Crowley smirks since he knows full well his husband can't see. "Well, it was about flippin' time, wasn't it?"

Aziraphale's head snaps up, his eyes, full of angelic fire, meeting Crowley's behind his dark glasses. "What's that supposed to mean?"

But Crowley doesn't fear that fire. He welcomes it.

"It means I've loved you forever, Aziraphale. And the second I got my head out of my arse and figured it out, I wanted to make it official."

Aziraphale nods and goes back to the task of examining his husband's shoes. Crowley takes the books out of Aziraphale's hands and places them on the shelf so he can wrap his husband up in his arms.

"Tell me. What's this really all about, hmm? Does it have anything to do with that wench that called you a troll?"

"Don't say that. I'm sure she's a perfectly nice young woman, all things considered," Aziraphale murmurs, not sounding all that convincing.

"Well, she's a _perfectly nice young woman_ who just dropped her lunch, missed her bus connection, and now has a huge runner in her stockings, so hopefully that makes your day a little bit better."

Aziraphale smiles softly into the fabric of his husband's shirt. "No. But I thank you for the effort."

"What do you care what these mortals think of you?" Crowley squeezes his husband tight, hoping for a giggle. "You're an _angel_! You're Mr. Holier-than-thou! You perform miracles! You fight for the greater good! You're not concerned with those things, right?"

"No." Aziraphale clears his throat and straightens his back in an attempt to pull himself up from his bog of self-pity. "Not at all. At least … I wasn't. I don't know. This new life of ours … it's doing things to me."

"Well, I should hope so," Crowley growls.

This time, Aziraphale does giggle. "That's not what I mean."

"Look …" Crowley leans back a few inches to look into his angel's eyes "… you chose your human form, right?"

Aziraphale's head bobs left to right, giving that some thought. "More or less. There were parameters."

"And if there was something you didn't like about it, you could change it?"

"I guess."

"So, why haven't you? I'll tell you why. Because deep down inside, you like yourself just the way you are. You like your face because it's kind. And you don't mind the shape of your body because you feel your favorite clothes suit you. You've never had a single negative thought about yourself that wasn't put into your head by someone else. You love yourself. And so do I. Because you're not your body, Aziraphale. You're your heart and your soul and your mind. You also happen to be one hell of a, as they say, _bad ass_."

"Yeah?" Aziraphale says with a bitter little hiccup. "And how do you figure that?"

"Aziraphale! You wield a flaming sword! You stood in front of Satan himself, ready to defend the world! Humans who walk into this shop every day should genuflect and worship you."

"That would fall under the category of false idols, so that's a no-no."

"Plus - and this is a _huge_ plus - you're the only being I know who's looked Beelzebub in the face and asked for a rubber duck! Do you think there's anyone else on this measly little planet that even _compares_ to you? Because, to be honest, if there were, that would be terrifying!"

Aziraphale rests his head against his husband's chest, melting into his words of praise. He'd never considered any of that, which proves how native he's actually become. Humans, he's noticed, do the same thing. What do degrees and accolades and charitable works matter so long as you're aesthetically pleasing to any and all sexes? But he can't allow his husband to lead him into the sin of pride. He knows Crowley isn't trying to tempt him. He's being supportive.

But as a demon, leading Aziraphale astray would fall under the umbrella of an _occupational hazard_.

"Would it make you feel better if I made a few alterations to _my_ form?" Crowley asks. "Give myself a bit of a pooch? Perhaps a double chin?"

"No! I know how much you like the form you're in. I know that you're afraid to lose it. I don't want you to go changing yourself for me."

"Now that's funny, because I feel exactly the same way about you."

The clock on the wall strikes the hour and Crowley looks up. Through the window, he sees another wave of women heading for the shop, huddled together as if they're embarking on a secret quest. "Do you really want to stop those women from coming in here all the time?"

"Not that I'm purposefully trying to drive away business …"

"Of course not."

"… but it would be nice."

Crowley pinches his angel's chin and gives him a wink. "I'll handle it."

The bell over the door tinkles as it swings open. This time, instead of the shop's portly proprietor greeting its customers, the tall, slender man they've been coming to see – the one who fills out a tight fitting shirt and black jeans like no one else in the world - does, and they're instantly delighted. Their collective eyes brighten when they see that the object of their lustful gazes has finally risen out of his chair, and is now standing in front of them to see.

"Hello, ladies," Crowley says to the obnoxious tittering of all, and Aziraphale shakes his head. How this is supposed to keep the birds out of the roost, he had no idea. This will probably make them stop by _more_.

"Hello."

"Hi."

"We didn't realize you _worked_ here," one woman says, her eyes glowing with the possibilities.

"Ah, yes, yes. Alas, I do. Is there anything you ladies need? Something to tickle your literary taste buds?" Crowley meets them glasses to eyes, flashing the most charming smile he can conjure. "Some Shakespeare, a little Whitman … some _Wilde_, perhaps?"

"Why, yes," one brave woman dares, taking Crowley in from head to toe, not even being subtle about it when her whole head moves, which makes the smiling brood beside her titter even more. "As a matter of fact, there is."

"Well, well, well. One second and my husband will help you."

It takes a moment for those words to hit, but the fallout is _precious_.

First comes the silence, then the confusion, followed by the disbelief.

"Husband?" Aziraphale hears one of the women say before Crowley grabs him around the waist, pulls him against him, and kisses him hard.

The gasp from their lips is positively delicious. Aziraphale would guffaw if not for his husband's mouth on his, his serpent tongue slipping between his lips and giving him the most inappropriate things to think about in public. By the time Crowley lets his husband come up for air, the women are gone – vanished as if in a puff of smoke since Aziraphale never heard the bells over the door ring to announce their departure.

Of course, that could be because of the thoughts his husband had been projecting into his mind using a soupçon of his demonic power.

His sexy serpent has one _vivid_ imagination.

"So, that's the solution you came up with?" Aziraphale fixes his vest, tugging at the hem, pretending to act scandalized by the whole process even though the smile he can't suppress begs to differ.

"Yup. I'd say it worked a treat, too. Besides, the best part about it is …" He slaps his husband playfully on the ass before he finishes "… we get to do that again for every lot that comes in."


End file.
